Sonnets: Love poems by Cynder
by Shade105
Summary: Cynder's curious desire to express her thoughts and emotions lead her to write poetry like no one in the dragon realm has ever seen. [Shakespeare's sonnets have been Spyro-fied as a way to honor these 400 year old works.]
1. Sonnet I

**A/N: Shade here.**

 **Recently, I've been studying Shakespeare's sonnets for the rhetoric course I am currently taking in school. While at times analyzing these can be a little tiring, once you fully understand them, you get to appreciate their art.** **Shakespeare is, indeed, a masterful poet, and his sonnets have something _very sexy_ about them.**

 **So, as a way to study, and to show my appreciation for these 400+ year old writings, I've decided to start _Spyro-fying_ these. J** **ust so you know, the writing style I'm working with here is a _bit_ experimental; it's not what I normally do when I write, but I like the way it sounds. Basically what I do is translate the poem to modern English, and then write a background story for why Cynder would write it. I don't really take the time to stay _completely_ true to the line-by-line structure of the originals, but I do keep the general form of it -you'll find the original poem below the story. **

**Tell me what you think about the style. Your feedback is appreciated tenfold.** **I'll be posting more in the near future, with perhaps 2 or 3 sonnets per chapter.**

 **Anyway, enjoy.**

* * *

Sonnet I.

 _Cynder did not know she had a poet in her; not until a deep desire to express her truest thoughts and emotions surged. The necessity came to her like a raging fire when one Ice Season day, early in the morning, she woke and saw the purple dragon standing outside on the balcony, under the eastern sunlight. The dragon stretched his form: His figure spread like a flowered wall vine, showing its features like all things beautiful do, while the birds sung their morning prayers to the dragon god of all things fair. The roses in the room blessed Spyro's ever lasting charm with their aroma, sweet and delicate, and their blush._

 _The image was picturesque, and dragoness could not help but to keep her eyes fixed on the dragon, mesmerized by what she considered his perfect grace._

 _..._

 _But the moment only lasted for a minute or two, and soon the dragon marched back into the room. Closing her eyes, the dragoness pretended to be asleep, only to hear the dragon head for the door. Once he stepped out, Cynder felt a bitter pain of solitude like she never had before. Suddenly, she felt like the world was devoid of all its beauty, and, little by little, all crumbled until she was the only thing left._

 _Opening her eyes, a thought crept into her mind, odd in its nature. As she got up on her haunches, this seed of a thought grew roots and a whispering mouth that spoke strange but urgent words._

 _'Spyro must procreate,' it said. 'Spyro has to give fruit, or else his beauty will die.'_

…

 _Once she was at her writing table, she knew what she had to do. Putting the feathered end of the quill to her lips, she thought of an adequate pen name; a character that could embody the urge she had to whisper beautiful desires to the dragon she loved ever so deeply. Putting her quill to the blank paper before her, she wrote the first name that came to mind._

 _Dabégo_

 _At first, she loved the name, but with the passing of every second, it aged in her mind, and grew dull. Dabégo, name of the goddess of love in Mole-ish lore, was all but too cliché. It sounded redundant... imperfect._

 _Dabégo_

 _..._

 _She took a long break on the balcony, looking down towards the city of Warfang. The metropolis was a mixed mesh of the grotesque and alluring: The ugly fought the perfect on every building -built with the most beautiful design, but stained with grime, every plaza -decorated like gardens worthy of kings, but soiled by the trash on its walkways-, and even every creature -smiling, yet tattered on the inside-. Yet Cynder knew there was true beauty, and it was Spyro._

 _Soon she was at her table again, and she thought of another name._

 _Pearl_

 _After adding the last letter, she looked at her scribbles, but immediately despised them. Pearl was fake, like plastic or a cheap brothel. It was not worthy._

 _Pearl_

 _An hour later a name worthy finally came while she was playing with the letters of her name._

 _C_

 _C_

 _Y_

 _N_

 _D_

 _E_

 _R_

 _..._

 _Yrecydn_

 _Yes… Yrecydn, meaning 'eternal' in old dragonspeak, was perfect… She simply felt it was…_

 _She could finally write._

…

 _And so she wrote for what seemed hours unending. Her quill, paper, paws, and face were stained with the black ink of her work as she wrote, scratched off, and rewrote her words over and over again. Once she finished, the sun had climbed far into the sky, and she had missed much of the day. But she was done: her first sonnet was ready._

 _And, like the strange seed growing in her mind, it said:_

Offspring we wish from that which is fair,  
To protect beauty from death's grip;  
While one gets closer to Fathem's dark lair.  
One's decedents protect beauty from being stripped.

But you, drawn to your worldly duties  
Help men with your love, but leave bare  
The realm of its greatest beauty,  
Oh male, cruel but ever fair.

You are world's fresh ornament,  
And call, with you grace, the spring;  
But your flower bud's precious content,  
You keep within in your own being.

Have mercy on the world, or your gluttony  
Will rid the world of its truest beauty.

* * *

Dabégo: Pronounched [dah-baí-go]

Yrecydn: Pronounced [ee-ré-sid]

Fathem: God of death in dragon lore.

The Original Sonnet:

From fairest creatures we desire increase,  
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,  
But as the riper should by time decease,  
His tender heir might bear his memory:

But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,  
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,  
Making a famine where abundance lies,  
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:

Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,  
And only herald to the gaudy spring,  
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,  
And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,  
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

(This sonnet is made by Shakespeare, and I _obviously_ take no credit AT ALL for making it)


	2. Sonnets II and III

**A/N: Hello there!**

 **Here are two more of Cynder's sonnets! Just so all of you are all aware, the second sonnet's story has a very slight erotic element to it, which I decided to add it because, well, Shakespeare has a tendency of being sensual in his works. The original sonnet merits it, for sure.**

 **Anyway, enjoy.**

* * *

 _Sonnet II:_

 _Cynder wroter her second sonnet with less ease, for, while the primal urge to express herself still burned within, the spontaneity of observing Spyro and wishing to write for the first time was not there, giving room for methodical thinking. Sitting in the vast, silent library she overlooked twice a week, she repeatedly tapped her quill on the fresh scroll she had unrolled, and thought back to her previous sonnet, that had become like a first child to the dragoness: it was not perfect -that's for sure, but that it was the first made it the schemata of what the she wished. It was prime-born, and anything that came after it would have to need to be modeled in its likeness._

 _After drowning the plume-tip in ink, she put it to the virgin paper, and started scribbling the first line of the poem. This line came slowly, each word dripping from her quill like her thoughts did through the selective funnel of her mind. Once the last punctuation mark was put in its place, she took a deep breath, and read what she had given birth to. Looking away once she had finished reading, she bit her lip: The line was imperfect…_

 _Immediately, she went to fix it, changing its words and structure, only to read these corrections, dislike them, and replace them. Soon, what had been a single straight line of words had become a mess of ink blots and corrections, but Cynder got the line to work. Reading the monstrosity one last time, she smiled, for thought the line looked grotesque, it read angelically. Her joy was not long-lived, however, for the moment she decided she was ready to move on to the next line, she suddenly realized there would be another line, and another, and another, and that each of these would be as hard to give life to as the first. Sighing, she put her plume in its ink-jar, and decided it was a good time to take a break._

…

 _Walking through the many isles of books and scrolls, she thought of the purple dragon, and her curious desire to see him breed. Though inexplicable, she knew deep in the pits of her mind that what she asked for was justified: Beauty had to live, and without Spyro's seed, it would not. As she checked a shelf to make sure its contents were in their place, she wondered who she wished the dragon to mate with. Instinctively, she thought of herself first, and when she did, a strong chill rushed down her back. Perhaps she wished to have him for herself…_

 _No, she thought, turning away from the shelf and walking on. Her intentions were not to have him, but to have his grace prosper, and that meant that if he'd choose some other partner, she'd be happy._

 _Or, at least she thought, for the moment…_

…

 _By the time she went back to her table, she felt relaxed, and ready to write, but the first line of her poem, the monster in words, drained her energy again. Reading through this mesh of ink blots and poorly scribbled words, the black dragoness suddenly felt like she had had gone from being a street painter, that carelessly slabbed colors on a canvas to explore the depths of his artistic orgasm, to a tested school master, that thought of the consequences that each stroke his brush would bring. Taking a deep breath she silently whispered_

 _I_

 _can_

 _do_

 _it..._

 _and got to work._

 _And even if it took hours, and even if she had to suffer through it's birth, her second sonnet was finally born. And as she put the last punctuation mark, she felt a slight sting in her stomach._

When two-hundred winters take hold of your brow,  
And dig deep trenches on your perfect crown  
Your coveted beauty, looked upon now,  
Will be tattered by weeds, of no value found.

Then, when you're asked where your beauty has sunk  
-The succulent nectar of your days of lust,  
You'll say, with your eyes sunken and drunk  
"I lost my beauty, in time's evil gust."

O! but great indeed the praise would be,  
If you could say "This fair child of mine,  
Will take my place when I'm no longer me,  
But rather, the earth that feeds Clevertines.

This is why I plead you to throw  
Your seed before the coming of snow.

* * *

Clevertines: White flowers that grow in the plains South of Warfang. These are commonly used in funeral services, and are planted near grave sites.

Shakespeare's original sonnet:

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,

Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,

Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held.

Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,

To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes

Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use

If thou couldst answer, "This fair child of mine

Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,"

Proving his beauty by succession thine.

This were to be new made when thou art old,

And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

* * *

 _Sonnet III:_

 _From time to time, Cynder was provoked by desire, making her want Spyro… no… crave for Spyro_

 _and flesh,_

 _and his panting,_

 _and his groans._

 _..._

 _Such was the case on the day the dragoness wrote her third sonnet. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun had started to make its way below the horizon. Having flown back to the great temple from a long day of rebuilding Warfang, both Spyro and Cynder showed clear signs of weariness: Their bodies were covered with the filth of construction work, and their minds had clearly been overused._

 _They needed to rest._

 _Inside the confines of the great architecture, they both quickly agreed to make their way to the bathing pools. The two dragons were too tired to speak -having done so the entire day; but every so often, the dragoness would turn her head and look to Spyro, who would glance back and give her a smile. They did this a few times, until they reached the hot spring at the back end of the temple._

 _The dragoness spared no time stepped into the welcoming waters of the hot steam. Her body was eased into a state of sensual enjoyment, as the water soothed her muscles, and the hot, humid air, mixed with the scent of flora getting ready for the night, cleared her mind. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and walked towards the deeper edge of the pool. Soon, she was neck-deep in the water, and had melted into bliss._

 _..._

 _Spyro stepped into the pool moments later, disturbing the serene steadiness of the water as he made his way towards dragoness. Cynder kept her eyes closed as she heard him get approach, waiting for him like flora waited for spring._

" _Might I help you, Cynder?"_

 _A forepaw took a hold of the dragoness' shoulder, prompting sudden tension from the her muscles. At first, the paw had a firmness like that of a beast catching prey it desired, but soon it loosened, and started running between her collarbone and her flank._

" _With what?" Cynder interrogated Spyro in a hushed voice._

" _You look like you need some help scrubbing yourself off."_

" _I'm fine," Cynder lied. "I can do it myself."_

 _But Spyro did not respond. Instead, he ran his paw further down her flank to her thigh, then over her thigh, to the tip of her tail._

 _The sensation was godly; the stimulation of her tender skin being nearly too much for her to bear. With her eyes still closed, she imagined the his stare on her: the amethyst-hued perfections feasting of her flesh. Every time he'd moved his paw about her underbelly, she'd gasp, as want would flood her mind._

 _Want…_

 _Want…_

 _Want…_

 _..._

 _Soon enough, Spyro had moved around to Cynder's other flank, and continued with the erotic ritual._

" _You seem to be enjoying this," Spyro teased._

 _But Cynder remained silent, aware that if she would voice herself, she toil the serene sacredness of the moment with her profanity._

…

 _That night they did not mate, instead, Spyro left the dragoness with a bug of endless desire in her head. And so, sitting under the dim light of a candle, the dragoness wrote as Spyro slept:_

Look in the mirror, and tell the face you see,  
"Now is the time that this face should form another,  
Whose fair elegance, if not renewed with speed,  
Will not bless, with beauty, some wanting mother."

Do you not know a fair maiden, whose unused womb

Wishes the tillage of your great husbandry?  
Or are you beckoning for a death tomb,  
To stop beauty's great posterity.

Think back to your mother, and I'm sure you'll see  
That when she'd look at you, she was pleased

To know that beauty would forever be

As long as your greatness would make a female bleed.

So now that you live, remember to seek,  
Love, red and hot. Do not be meek!

* * *

Shakespeare's original sonnet:

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,

Now is the time that face should form another,

Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,

Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.

For where is she so fair whose uneared womb

Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?

Or who is he so fond will be the tomb

Of his self-love, to stop posterity?

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee

Calls back the lovely April of her prime;

So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,

Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.

But if thou live remembered not to be,

Die single and thine image dies with thee.

 **Please Comment.**

 **Thankies!**


End file.
